


Episode

by FakeCirilla9



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, Weapons, tragically canon compliant, with all the drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: An episode of Doriath warfareAka the story of one sword that is known mostly by being broken by Sauron who stepped on it during the battle of the Last AllianceWritten for Fëanorian week 2020, day 5: Curufin, Weapon.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12
Collections: Feanorian Week 2020





	Episode

He felt it sooner than he saw it. 'Twas as if the world had halted for a moment. In a nick of time, all disappeared: the battlement, cries of men, smell of blood. Sharp pain tugged inside him as if a wide gap opened in his heart. Eä returned just as quickly but the hollowness at heart remained.

He abandoned the open battle and fled to palace halls.

Curufin laid on the royal floor, eerily beautiful and utterly still. Of course, he'd sneak into the king's quarters even as the slaughter went on to do the thing that would bring them victory.

Either he was too late or their Silmaril had been hidden somewhere in the palace, Celegorm didn't care at the moment.

He fell at his brother's side.

Atarinkë was cold as stones beneath him. Even now he was fair, maybe even more so than in life with his features evened out by eternal calm. He was pale, pale with the coldness of death, paler than Tilion ever was when starlight lit through him when they rode together in Oromë's train.

The white of deathly hue made a striking contrast with his raven hair so alike that of their father; more than Caranthir's rather dark brown than onyx or Maglor's who always managed to wear them plaited somewhat differently. Ever Curufin had been a sculpture of their father in every aspect.

The other contrast was made with blood. Red dark blood stagnating already but spreading still in the pool on the floor. Celegorm's hands were red-dripping wet with it before he thought what he's doing.

And he brought his fingers to his face, dabbing his cheekbones in Curufin's life liquid fluid remnants.

Like Oromë anointing him long ago before the Sun first rose.

He didn't feel that thrill now. Nor sense of pride even though they had pursued his dream here. He had talked them into this. Reasonable Maitimo and reserved Curufinwë went compliant with his will.

Hollowness didn't leave place for regrets or guilt.

But the desire for vengeance was fanned stronger. It kindled, burning his insides like Silmaril that scorched Carcharoth's intestines. He cast away his heavy spear, taking up Curufin's sword forged by Telchar.

"I will avenge you, brother."

The sword gleamed, despite dark red stains upon its blade, with a pale light in fires started here and there by the attacking legion. Maybe it was charmed, enhanced by some evasive magic of Dwarves from their caverns deep. It did justice to its name though. The steel blazed, verily to its name, like a red and white flame. The clots of blood upon it were still warm, still intensely red and catching firelit. The hardened steel glimpsed with white light. The smouldering, burning furniture lit it but the fire seemed to come from within it, living in its very soul, waylaid until it awakens during battles. The white light emanating from the fell weapon was much fainter, indubitably, but somewhat align to what its name referenced. _Sil_. 

***

Dior had to have the favour of the gods. Whether it was his quarter of Maiar blood or witch of a mother watching over him even after her passing away, or simply Valar still wroth at them and not passing any single occasion to make things more difficult for them – but Dior's sword pierced him right next to his heart. And Celegorm knew enough of mortal wounds to recognise the light blood that was supposed to flow to his heart gush out of his body to the floor.

He fell. Scrambled to Curufin. And hugging his brother's hröa one last time Celegom closed his eyes. He embraced the darkness that awaited them – the whole cursed dispossessed House of Fëanor.

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps I run a little wild with one of the most known weapon artefacts in Middle Earth... or perhaps not. Forged by Telchar, it had to pass through Feanorians' hands to be given to Elros, the first king of Numenor raised by the two of our murderous brothers. And why not let Curufin have it? He had got its knife mate Angrist already (until one mortal took it).


End file.
